Crackback (7 page)

In the locker room at Twin Falls, Zach puts on pads next to Tyson. I choose an empty spot on the other side of the room. Sam Hunter is bent over with his pants stretched out on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing, Hunter?” Tyson asks.

“Putting both legs on at the same time. If their coach says, ‘Those guys put their pants on the same way we do,' I want him to be wrong.”

Tyson shakes his head. “You're one weird mother.”

“Thanks, Ty.” Sam slides his pants past his knees, both legs together.

Coach Stahl enters. “Attitude plus aptitude equals altitude. Think about it, men. If you have the right attitude and the right aptitude, which is another name for skills, you can go as high as you want. Attitude plus aptitude equals altitude.” Stahl rubs his mustache.

That must have taken him ages to think up.

“Some of you need to work on your attitude.” He looks at me. “Some of you need to work on your skills, your aptitude. But when you put them together, we can conquer the mountain that is the state championship.”

Where does he get this stuff?

Stahl climbs onto a bench. “You know what you need to do. Just win, Eagles. Just win. We've got two victories. At the end of this game, I want three. Three and zero and we're on track to be…”

Stahl rips down a piece of paper exposing the word C
HAMPIONS
. “What do you want to be, men?”

“Champions.”

“What?”

“Champions!”

“What? I can't hear you.”

“CHAMPIONS!”

Stahl jumps off the bench and leads us onto the field. Sepolski used to shake our hands, then walk out behind us. I miss him more than ever.

In the first half, both defenses shine and both offenses struggle. Coach Stahl is protecting Fox by calling running plays. Twin Falls knows this, so they're stacking nine guys on the line, daring us to throw.

On defense, we've shut them down and quieted the crowd. They've been three plays and out on every possession, and we've given the offense good field position. Fox hasn't done anything with it.

In the locker room at halftime, Coach Stahl sends the Gatorade jug flying. “This town is the scum of the earth.
These guys are the scum of the earth, and you're tied with them,” he shouts. “What does that make you? Scum of the earth.”

Sweat drips off my face. I wipe it with a towel as Stahl barks at the defense. “If the other team doesn't score, we can't lose. It's that simple. Hold them to zero. Anything more, you give them a chance.”

I'm stunned. Rather than tell us we're playing well, Stahl's raising the standard to perfection. What about the offense? What's he going to tell them? That no matter what they do, it's still the fault of the defense if we lose.

“I don't care how bad you hurt. I don't care what's the matter with you. Go out and rip the heart out of them,” Stahl's yelling. “Leave everything on the field.”

I look down at the diamond pattern on the floor. Did the men who built this room ever think it would be the site of such stupid speeches?

“Hold them to zero, men, and we won't lose. What are we holding them to?”

“Zero,” guys shout.

“What?”

“Zero!”

“What? I can't hear you.”

“ZERO.”

I'm sick of this rah-rah crap.

Halfway through the third quarter, our punting team runs onto the field. Twin Falls loads two guys on the end. They're going for the block.

“Down, set, hit.” Number 31 runs in untouched. He stretches out and blocks the punt. The ball bounces right to a teammate who grabs it and runs in for a touchdown. The crowd bursts into cheers. Just like in practice. Nobody blocked the end. Extra point is good, too. It's 7-0. Defense hasn't given up a point and we're still behind. Our special teams suck.

Stahl throws his headset down and screams, “Adams, you're done. Monson, you're the new punter.”

In the fourth quarter, Twin Falls plays conservatively, protecting the lead. On third and three, their pulling guard leads a sweep my way. I race up to fill the gap. I remember Dad saying, “Go low. Go underneath him.” I hit the guard at the ankles and come up underneath. I put my helmet into the ball carrier and rip at his arms.

“Fumble.” Krause picks up the ball. Tyson flattens the quarterback. I cut the running back at the ankles. Somebody grabs Krause's jersey, but he shakes loose. He cuts back and zigzags into the end zone. Touchdown.

“We're back in this.” Brooksy slaps my helmet.

I smack my fist into my palm as I run to the sideline. Dad stands along the fence clapping. I'm glad he saw that.

“Way to go, Man,” Jonesy yells. “We needed the D to score.”

“Tie game,” Stahl shouts. “Hold 'em again, defense.”

“Watch it deep,” Jonesy warns. We're playing threedeep zone, so my responsibility is the right third of the field. I check the wind. The flag hangs limp on the pole.

Three downs gain four yards, and Twin Falls prepares to punt. I line up outside.

“Hut one. Hut two.” I rush off the line and try to slide past the blocker. He stays with me, though, and the punt booms off. Zach makes a fair catch at our forty-one.

“C'mon, offense, one score,” I holler as we run to the sideline.

Two running plays get nothing, so Coach Stahl calls a pass. This is risky.

“Down, set, hit.” Fox drops back and watches Brooksy all the way. Fox lofts a pass to the sideline, and the defender steps in front for the interception. Luckily, he slips and his knee hits the ground. Otherwise, he had clear sailing for a touchdown.

It's 7-7. We've got to hold them.

With 1:53 left, Twin Falls faces a third and five from our thirty-two. Tie game. I slide over to cover the wideout.

Sometimes in football a play unfolds that is so well designed, so beautiful in its execution, that it will haunt you forever.

“Hut one.” The quarterback drops back. The receiver comes at me and hooks in. The quarterback pump fakes, but I don't bite. I stay tight on my guy as he cuts for the post. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the tailback running for the sideline. Where's he going? The quarterback looks downfield for the bomb, so I stay with my guy.

Suddenly the quarterback turns and throws a bullet to the sideline. Who's there? The tailback has cut upfield.
It's a brilliant play
flashes through my mind as I rush to cover. I leap, but the ball sails over my outstretched hand into the arms of the tailback. He coasts across the goal line. My guy. Touchdown Twin Falls. The crowd erupts in cheers. I want to disappear.

“Where the hell were you?” Stahl shouts.

“I thought—”

“That's exactly your problem.” Stahl's red with rage. “You thought. You thought. How many times do I have to tell you? React. You didn't react and they scored.”

I replay the touchdown in my mind as our offense runs one bad play after another. I should have left the first
receiver earlier. I should have protected my zone. I should have raced to the side as soon as I saw the tailback. I should have reacted better. I should have jumped higher. I should have tipped the ball away.

0:06. 0:05. 0:04. The seconds tick down, and I feel helpless.

0:02. 0:01. 0:00. Final score: 14-7. I got burned. I cost us the game. Everyone in the stadium saw.

Everyone, including Dad.

The locker room is as quiet as the middle of Greenland. Losing always hurts, but this one rips me up. I turn the shower handle to red and hot water pounds my neck. There's no way to wash away the pain of a loss like this.

I was so conscious of the wideout going deep that I stayed with him. During the play, I thought I heard someone yelling, “Tailback, tailback,” but it didn't come from the Confluence bench.

I go over the play again and again. Touchdown Twin Falls: 14-7. The result's always the same. I feel frozen in place as I stare at a clump of hair on the drain.

“One play, Man. One game,” Brooksy says. “Let it go.”

I appreciate that, but I've never been good at letting things go. I replay it over and over. Across the room Zach whispers to Tyson. He doesn't look my way.

Coach Stahl begins his pacing. “We lost the game. We didn't play aggressive football. We didn't react.” I bend my head because he's looking at me. “Still we were right in it until the end. Then one play cost us. Some guys got cocky. They thought they were smarter than the coaches. They thought they'd do things their own way.”

I look straight at him. This is so unfair I want to see his face. Now it's Stahl who looks away.

I don't want to see anybody when we get back to Confluence, so I cross the parking lot to the Little League field and sit on the bleachers in the dark.

Zach and I played Little League here. That's when we became best friends. I played second base, and he was shortstop. One game we were way ahead, and it was threatening to rain. Mr. Barlet wanted to get the innings in to make the game official. He had Zach and me bat left-handed so we'd make outs. Zach smacked a shot to right. I looped a hit down the left field line, and Zach raced to third. We looked at each other and couldn't stop laughing.

I cross the diamond to the football practice field. I remember watching high school players when I was in grade school. I thought they were huge. I thought they were adults. Now that I'm in high school, I don't feel huge and I don't feel like an adult.

Last year when Zach and I made varsity, I thought we were set. I thought we'd start for three years and win a ton of games together. Now we're dressing on opposite sides of the locker room. Zach's hanging with Tyson, and he hasn't talked to me since I said no to shooting steroids.

As I walk down the street, I pass a house where a couple watches TV. The score of a football game doesn't change what they do. But losing the game feels like it's changed everything. We're no longer undefeated. We won't be conference champs. And Zach's not there for me.

Brick steps drop down to a tree that hangs over the river. I climb out on the trunk and watch the dark water below. It wouldn't be difficult to drop in. How fast is the current? How far would it carry me? How long would it be before anyone realized I was gone?

I see the image of Africans diving off the slave ship. I wouldn't be able to do that. I'd try to survive. That's how I am.

I watch a branch float away, just like our undefeated season. Twin Falls isn't that good. If we lost to them, how are we going to beat anybody?

The water laps and splashes. It flows downriver whether anyone watches or not. Springs, swamps, streams, creeks feed small rivers that flow to bigger rivers on their way to the sea.

Still, I wish I hadn't given up that damn touchdown.

When I get home, Mom and Dad are watching
The Godfather.

“Where have you been?” Mom pauses the DVD.

“Down by the river. Thinking.”

“Thinking about how you got suckered on that touchdown?” Dad asks.

“Yeah.”

“What did I tell you about getting too far over? Didn't you see the tailback? Who the hell did you think was covering him?”

“I stayed with the wideout too long.”

“You've got to pass him off once another receiver enters your zone.” Dad demonstrates with his hands. “You can't leave half the field open, especially when the quarterback has all day to throw.”

“I know.”

“Are you hungry, Miles?” Mom asks. “There's some chocolate cake.”

“No, thanks.”

“And what happened on that blocked punt?” Dad asks. “Who's got the guy on the end?”

“Coach Stahl says no one needs to block him. He says Adams is too slow.”

“Well, Adams is slow, but you can't let someone rush in untouched.”

“I know.”

“Someone's got to put a shoulder on that guy to slow
him down. That doesn't make any sense, leaving your punter vulnerable.”

I'm glad he's criticizing this rather than me.

“Protecting the punter is one of the simplest things in the game. You form a wall.” Dad demonstrates the wall with his arms. “You hold your block. You run downfield. But you sure as hell don't let guys run in untouched.”

This is Dad's way of not blaming me entirely for the loss. I appreciate it, but I can't think of anything else to say. “Okay. I'm going to bed.”

“Good night, Miles.” Mom turns the movie back on.

In bed, when I close my eyes, I keep seeing the play. Someone's hollering, “Tailback, tailback.” This time I recognize the voice. It's Dad. He's trying to warn me.

I replay coming up on the sweep and causing the fumble, but that's pushed away by the play I got burned on. Why is the mistake so much clearer? Why does that come in slow motion with all its detail?

One more image appears, Lucia. I should have told her I'm glad she's in Halloran's class. I should have told her I'm glad she's in our school. I should have said I liked her T-shirt. I hardly know her, but she's the one person I'd like to talk to after costing us the game.

My first thought Saturday morning is that the game's a bad dream, another nightmare. The soreness in my back and arms, though, reminds me it's real. We lost. My fault. I can tell the pain of losing is going to last much longer than the aches in my body.

Downstairs, Martha's at the computer designing stationery. “Good morning, Miles.”

“Morning.” I don't want to think about the game, so I avoid the paper. Instead, I read the back of the Frosted Flakes box. Some lame idea about cutting out a circle to make a flying disc. Most people would go get a Frisbee. You'd have to be bored out of your mind to do the things on the backs of cereal boxes.

“Miles, how come you're not going to the dance?” Martha sits down.

“It's stupid. Everybody spends a lot of money to stand around and pretend to be grown-up. The whole thing's a joke.”

“No, it's not. It's romantic. Kelsey's sister Maddie got a long teal dress, and she let us watch her try it on. She's going to The Landing for dinner, and she's wearing her hair up. She'll be beautiful.”

“Great.” I put two waffles in the toaster.

“You should go, Miles.”

“Martha, I'm not going.” I raise my voice. “I asked a girl. She said no. I'm not going.”

“She said no? What's the matter with her?”

“She's already going with someone else.”

Martha's eyes widen.

“It's okay. Besides, there's a new girl I kind of like.” Why am I telling Martha about Lucia?

“Who is it? Who is it?” Martha bounces up and down.

“I'm not telling. But if anything happens, I'll let you know.”

After last night's game, I want to be by myself. The library's a good choice. Nobody from the team will be there. Nobody who wants to talk football. Nobody who'll remind me of the loss.

I find a copy of
USA Today.
There's a picture of kids in a limousine and an article about high school dances. Some guys spend thousands of dollars on limos, tuxes, dinners, and hotel rooms. That's beyond me. I couldn't do that on my Easy Rest money.

I look at the previews for the new TV shows for teenagers. These high school kids look like models, are loaded
with money, and have lots of sex. That's not my high school life.

The game keeps coming back. That same play. Twin Falls touchdown. I wish I could have it back. If I could erase those ten seconds, my life would be a lot better.

I don't want to read. I don't want to look at magazines. I don't want to go online. I'm afraid somebody will see me here and say something about last night. A few people look at me funny, like they know I lost the game for Confluence.

Walking home, my shoe sticks each time I step. A big wad of gum. Why can't people put gum in the trash? What do they think will happen if they throw it on the ground?

I sit on the curb and pick at the gum with a paper clip. It's deep in the grooves of my shoe and won't come off. I step in some sand to stop the stickiness.

Sunday after church, we go to Grandma's for brunch, like we do each month. The drive past corn and soybean fields feels far from the game. A man with a beat-up truck sells squash, melons, and pumpkins by the side of the road. Sumac in the ditch is changing green to red. I keep thinking about the loss. We'll drop out of the top ten.

Grandma's waiting on the porch. She comes down the steps smiling. “Hi, Miles. I got the picture of you from the paper. Congratulations.” She gives me a hug.

“Thanks, Grandma.”

“Boy, those roads were slippery,” Dad says. “The ditch was full of cars.” He thinks Grandma worries too much, so he always does this.

“The roads were bad?” Grandma looks confused.

“No, they were fine.” Mom glares at Dad but doesn't say anything. She never does.

“Grandma, I can swing a bucket of water without spilling a drop,” Martha says. “I can do it in the living room.”

“No, no,” Grandma says. “Not in the house.”

“That bucket could come loose,” Dad says, “smash a window, and send glass flying. People could get killed.” He walks over to the TV and turns on the pregame.

I don't feel like football, so I sit on the porch with Grandma and Mom. They both are tall and thin and cross their legs the same. They push up their glasses the same way, too.

“Miles, how's school?” Grandma asks.

“Good.” I don't want to talk about the loss.

Martha swings her bucket out front.

“Be careful,” Grandma says. “I don't want anyone getting hurt.”

For brunch Grandma's made bacon, sausage, French toast, and scrambled eggs. “Our furnace has been making strange noises,” Dad says. “I hope it doesn't blow up while we're gone.” Everybody pretends to ignore him. He's not funny. Why doesn't Mom tell him to knock it off?

After brunch while I'm drying dishes, I notice the picture of a dark-haired baby in the corner of the dining room. I've seen it before but have forgotten his name. “Who's that, Grandma?” I set the serving plate on the shelf.

“That's James. He died when he was two, right before your mom was born.”

“How'd he die?”

“Meningitis.” Grandma says this calmly. “I also had another son who died. He was born prematurely. That was Daniel. He came right after Drew.”

Two children who died. I wipe the bowl that's already dry. That must have been hard for Grandma.

In the living room, Dad turns up the volume on the game.

Sunday night is film night, and after Friday's loss I don't want to go. Maybe I could call in sick. Maybe I could say we didn't get back from Grandma's. Maybe one of those disasters Dad made up struck.

Instead I sit in my chair and dread the clock counting down. Waiting is torture. Each second is one moment closer to everybody seeing the play that cost us the game.

Stahl runs my good play once and focuses on the fumble recovery. “Krause, heads-up play to find the ball. Tyson, solid block.” He doesn't even mention that I caused the fumble.

I examine the concrete walls and exposed vents. There's not much to look at here other than the tape, and that's the last thing I want to watch. The game runs quietly, with no crowd noise, only Stahl's comments.

On the touchdown I gave up, Stahl runs the play over and over. He doesn't mention Keller, the safety, being slow to pick up the receiver. He doesn't mention the defensive line getting no pressure on the quarterback. Instead, it's all on me.

“Dammit, Manning. Look at that wide-open zone. You didn't react. We can't have that.” He pauses the tape.

I nod my head. I don't need to look. The play's burned into my brain.